


Tracing Your Number On My Phone

by Eristastic



Category: End Roll (Video Game)
Genre: Crushes, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eristastic/pseuds/Eristastic
Summary: They’re two boys who aren’t used to this, thrown into a wave of things they didn’t ask to feel, and it’s making the Informant feel like he’s drowning. It’s not a bad thing. 

Russell calls up three friends for definitely-not-love advice before finally calling for information.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Nakihime made [this criminally cute video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2bFm198Y7A) and I haven't been able to stop watching it, so here I continue my song-inspired InfoRussell but with a non-Vocaloid song this time, I guess...
> 
> ('''Inspiration song''': Can't Sleep Love by Pentatonix; title from Y. Chang's lyrics for Baby Romantica)

Everyone knows, of course.

That’s mostly because Mireille took all the adults aside and made them promise not to say a thing about it, thereby letting those who hadn’t already known (Dogma and Saxon exclusively) in on the secret, but the end result is the same. And Gardenia probably found out first. She might have been the one who told Mireille, actually, now Tabasa thinks about it. But anyway. That doesn’t matter. The point is that Russell’s got a crush, and everyone in the village is doing their best to support him while also pretending not to know.

It’s not an easy balance.

Tabasa, for his part, has been trying to drop hints that he’s always there if Russell ever needs to talk (a stupid suggestion: Russell never needs to talk), but otherwise he’s mostly leaving it alone. The way he sees it, Russell is a mature, sensible kid, and he’ll work things out at some point. Heck, more likely than not he’s already got it all figured out and the rest of them just haven’t caught up yet. That’s probably what it is. Russell isn’t the type to get mired in his problems.

That certainty is, however, blown to pieces one night when Russell rings him up sounding so flustered that Tabasa genuinely doesn’t recognise his voice for a solid minute.

“Wait, wait, this _is_ Russell, right?” he asks, sticking a bookmark haphazardly in the book he’d been reading, and settling back on the couch.

Russell breathes in, and sounds almost normal when he says, “Yes, it’s me.”

“Okay, let’s…let’s calm down a bit, okay?” Tabasa says, his skin crawling a little at how unnatural everything feels. “Can you start from the top?”

“…yeah, sorry.” Russell breathes in again, the sound rattling through Tabasa’s phone. “Sorry. I didn’t know who else to call. I know this is a bad time, I’m–”

“No, Russell, seriously: all of that’s fine!” he says lightly. “Just explain it a bit, maybe?”

Russell makes a sound that feels like it should accompany a nod. He then proceeds to recount, in sterile and stilted detail, the date he’d apparently gone on earlier that day. Tabasa’s stunned. He doesn’t remember to react until about halfway through.

“Whoa, okay, wait a second there!” he says, holding onto the armrest so tightly that his knuckles are stark white. “You went on a date–”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“You went on a not-date, to Cloakpoint of all places, with the _Informant_?”

“Yes. That’s what I said. But it wasn’t a date.”

“Alright, it wasn’t a date.” Tabasa guesses he can’t say anything against that: Russell’s gone to the cinema in Cloakpoint with just about everyone in the village by now. He sits back and forces his fingers to relax. “But it sounds like you wanted it to be a date.”

“I’m not giving off that impression. I know I’m not.”

“Well, you kind of are.”

“I’m not!” Russell says, his voice growing flustered again. “I never said that! I just wanted to know if there’s something I’m missing, because you _know_ I’m not good at this…this…”

“Emotional stuff?” Tabasa provides, staring out of the window. He can see Russell’s house from here.

“Fine, that. And the Informant was the one who invited me out, and he’s been doing that more and more recently, like he’s trying to make…opportunities or something, but he won’t _say_ anything and I don’t get it.”

Tabasa blinks, curling a strand of his fringe around a finger. “Alright. Well. That’s understandable, so don’t feel bad about it, okay? Promise me that.”

“I promise,” Russell mumbles.

“Good. Okay, so he was the one who asked you out, right?”

“If you don’t stop insinuating things, I’m hanging up.”

Tabasa tries not to smile, because he knows it’ll only seep into his voice. “Alright, ‘invited’, then. So he invited you?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s been doing things like this a lot?”

“I think so. Maybe. He starts conversations more, and walks places with me.”

“And during the film, you said he…?”

“He didn’t seem to be paying much attention. I feel like that’s understandable – it wasn’t a very good one – but he kept looking at me. It was…” Through the phone’s static, Russell’s voice goes quiet for a moment, and then, “…awkward. It was awkward.”

“Do you think he’s getting more, uh…clingy? Finds more excuses to touch you?”

“Maybe. I don’t really… I think so. He insisted we hold hands on the way back, but it’s Cloakpoint, so he might just have been scared. That’s probably it.”

Tabasa looks straight ahead blankly, and he thinks he can feel his soul leaving his body. He decides he pities the Informant: Tabasa sure wouldn’t want to find himself saddled with a crush on someone this dense.

But that’s neither here nor there.

“Russell, it’s not that I’m not glad you told me, but can you run your question by me one more time? I mean, what are you asking advice for here?”

“I want to know if I’m imagining it. I think I might be. Actually, I probably am just imagining it all, because I’ve had that kind of thing on my mind lately: Mireille’s been telling me things and giving me random pointers for love. I don’t know why either, but that makes sense, doesn’t it? That’s all, isn’t it?”

Of course Mireille would break her own rule. Little sneak. Tabasa tips his head back, trying to think of the best way to tackle the situation. Russell isn’t a stupid kid: he’d recognise what’s going on if it were happening to anyone else, probably. Heck, he’d recognise how weird he himself is acting if it were anyone else. So Tabasa just has to tease the answer out of him.

“Well, let’s say that’s all,” he says smoothly. “Can I ask you something else? How do you feel after today?”

There’s silence on the other end.

“I mean,” Tabasa tries to elaborate, “you sound kind of flustered. Did you find yourself feeling anything, um…unusual after your not-date?”

More silence, gaping, the static buzzing in Tabasa’s ear like cicadas. It’s annoying, but he needs to be patient. Asking Russell about his feelings is like trying to tame a wild animal. He’s gotten so much more talkative since the beginning about everything else, too. It’s a shame.

“I don’t think so,” Russell eventually says. His voice is too small.

“Are you sure? Being asked out isn’t–”

“I said I’d hang up if you made unwanted implications again, Tabasa. Thanks for helping. Sorry.” He hangs up.

Tabasa blinks at his phone for a second, then looks over at the window again. He could go down and be at Russell’s door in less than a minute. He could satisfy his own curiosity and find out just how much Russell’s blushing. He could, but he doesn’t get out from the embrace of the too-soft cushions.

Better to just leave it to play itself out.

 

*

 

“Russell, what are you even asking me?” Gardenia leans against the kitchen counter, holding her phone up to an ear while she watches her caramel cook. It’s still transparent, so she figures she has time for a quick phone call, and it’s not like Russell ever calls for long.

“I’m _saying_ , does it mean anything when someone asks somebody else out for ice cream?”

“Well, I mean, not usually, I don’t think so. Isn’t that just something you do with friends normally?” She brushes some of her hair back, peering into the saucepan. Still bubbling away, and not even a hint of yellow. Well, caramel’s like that sometimes.

“Oh.”

“Why’d you ask, anyway? Are _you_ planning on asking someone out for ice cream?” she grins. Maybe he’s finally taking the first step in his mysterious crush.

“No. The Informant asked me.”

Gardenia takes a moment to process this, because while she’s had several pet theories about who Russell was so obviously pining over, the Informant was not on the list. But that’s fine. She can work with this. “So when are you going?”

“We went today.”

“Oh, cool! How was it?” _Keep calm, keep casual, don’t let him hear how excited you feel_.

“It was alright,” he says in a quiet voice, barely audible over the almost rhythmic bubbling of water and sugar in the pan. Gardenia moves back a little, turning up her phone’s volume.

“Where did you go?” she prompts.

“Down to the beach. We walked down to the old hospital and back up, then got ice cream at the other end.”

“Oh yeah, I know the place. What flavour did you get? Wait, let me guess! You like fruits, so…something refreshing, right? Raspberry, or melon, or something? I’ve got no idea about the Informant, though,” she laughs.

“He got mint. He guessed raspberry for me too.”

‘ _Nice work, Informant!_ ’ Gardenia sends him a thumbs up he couldn’t possibly see, and says, “Mint fits him, I guess! Was it fun, then?”

“Yeah, it was…it was alright.”

Gardenia hums happily, looking back into the pan and noting with satisfaction that the caramel is starting to brown. “Anything interesting happening down at the beach?”

“Same as usual. There was a nice sunset, though.”

Gardenia has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing over how romantic it sounds. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, then!”

“Yeah. Oh, sorry, I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t call up just to boast or anything. I just wanted to know if I’d misread something.”

“Don’t worry about it! And Russell?” She picks up the pan, swirling the rapidly darkening caramel around to make sure it doesn’t burn. “I think you should just go with your instinct on this one!”

He takes a moment to answer, in which time she turns off the heat and sets the pan down. “…Okay. Thanks, Gardenia.”

“No problem! Call me anytime, okay?” They say goodnight and hang up, and Gardenia starts to drizzle out her caramel cages, humming happily the whole time.

 

*

 

It’s far from ordinary to receive a call from Russell, and Kantera puts down his pen the second he recognises Russell’s voice. Balancing sums can wait, he decides.

“Good evening,” he says warmly into the receiver.

“Good evening,” Russell says back, for the second time.

“What can I help you with, Russell?”

“I was wondering if you carried any medicine for heart problems.”

“Heart problems?” The smile is gone from Kantera’s face, and he does a mental check of his stock. “What kind of problems? Have you been experiencing chest pain recently?”

“It’s more…I looked it up, and I think I might have arrhythmia. It’s not very serious, is it? But it’s a little annoying too, so I thought I should ask.”

“Arrhythmia?” Kantera’s relieved. “Do you find your heartbeat often speeds up erratically?”

“Not…not all the time, but in stressful situations.”

Now he’s not worrying so much about Russell’s health, Kantera realises how oddly quiet he sounds. He’s always been frightfully meek, of course, but this is something quite different. He sounds embarrassed.

Kantera smiles down at the table, rolling his pen back and forth with a finger. “That might be pure stress, then. What kind of stressful situations do you find yourself in? I don’t mean to pry, of course: I only want to make sure I understand the situation before I mix up any medication for you.”

“That’s okay. It’s usually in social situations.”

That makes perfect sense; Kantera nods despite himself.

“Or rather, it’s mostly with one person, now I think about it…” his voice trails off.

“Which person might that be?” Kantera asks. He thinks he’s beginning to understand. It only remains to be seen whether Russell understands too, or if he really is quite this obtuse.

“The Informant.”

Kantera does his best to hide his surprise: he only freezes for a second, then curls his fingers back from the pen and sits up a little straighter. There wasn’t a trace of shame in the confession, which suggests Russell didn’t think of it as a confession at all. “Well. Has he been treating you unkindly recently?”

“No, not unkindly.”

“He’s been too intrusive, perhaps?”

“No, not that either.”

“Do you have any idea why, then?” he asks gently. There’s a sharp gust of wind and he looks over to see Cody come in – he makes a sign of apology and gestures for her to look around the shop while he’s talking. Russell still hasn’t answered, so he makes another suggestion.

“Has he been particularly close to you?”

“…something like that.”

“Ah.”

“You’re thinking that there’s something going on, aren’t you? It’s not like that,” he says, only a little hastily. “It’s just him trying to be more social, I think.”

“And why do you think that?”

“I…I don’t know. He’s been very…”

“Attentive?”

“Yes.” The poor child’s voice is so fragile through Kantera’s old-fashioned phone that he sounds liable to shatter.

“Russell, have you talked to anyone else about this, might I ask?”

A small pause. “I asked Tabasa, and Gardenia, I guess.”

Kantera clicks his tongue. “Good heavens Russell, whyever would you go to Tabasa for advice in lo–…this sort of thing? Goodness, no. He couldn’t recognise a gesture, romantic or otherwise, if he was slapped in the face with it.” Which isn’t to say Kantera’s bitter at all. Cody seems to be smothering laughter in the corner and he glares at her.

“Was your conversation with Gardenia any more fruitful?” he asks, trying to smooth things over.

“I don’t think either of them was fruitful, exactly.”

Oh, the poor boy. “Well, that being the case, and because you sound very lost about all this, would you mind if I gave you some questions to think about?”

No answer, which usually constitutes assent, with Russell.

“Russell, could you try to think about how you’ve felt each time the Informant has been…attentive, as we said? And could you try and go over everything he’s done for you recently, and then think about what he might have been trying to tell you? It isn’t easy, I know, but if you do have any problems, my shop is always open to you.

“And please,” Kantera says, frantically thinking of the best way to word what he wants to say, “do not imagine that…certain things are unavailable to you simply because you haven’t experienced them before. Sometimes you’d do better to forget everything you know about yourself, and take a fresh look at the situation. Perhaps you’re feeling something quite simple, but can’t recognise it because you’ve never felt it. Perhaps you’re being given attentions that are blatant, but you can’t acknowledge them because you aren’t used to them. It’s something to think about.”

There’s quite a long silence, and Kantera begins to worry that he was too abrupt. Cody is very obviously listening in on the conversation with curiosity that seems to waft off her, but he keeps his eyes on the table, waiting.

Just as he’s about to apologise, or try and clarify, Russell says, “…thank you. I’ll…I’ll try and think about that. I think I probably won’t need that medicine after all. Sorry for calling over nothing.”

“No, it’s always a pleasure to talk with you!”

“Thank you, Kantera.” He hangs up, and Kantera stays still for a moment before hanging up as well. It’s interesting. He hopes… He hadn’t expected it, but he hopes it goes well for both of them. He hopes he managed to steer Russell onto the right path.

And then, since Cody is practically buzzing with questions, he turns around with a huge smile on his face, and begins to relay the news.

 

*

 

The Informant’s desperate. It’s not a position he likes to be in, and he’d probably resent Russell for it if he were good at feeling anything for Russell that isn’t…this. Which is the problem.

He’s not good at ‘this’.

Lying on the sofa, his hand resting on his phone, he stares up at the ceiling. What’s he supposed to _do_? He couldn’t get any more obvious if he tried, and he has been trying, and it’s getting so irritating, being watched by all the villagers as if they’re pitying him. He’s not theirs to pity; he’s not theirs at all. He doesn’t mind them, but they have no business coming anywhere near this. This is _his_. He just doesn’t know what to do with it.

He sits up a little abruptly, and is momentarily blinded by black bursting into his vision. Steadying himself, he looks down at his feet and his eyes unfocus. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have started it at all. Once it had become clear that Happy Dream wasn’t going to crumble down around them – around Russell, alone – there hadn’t been any time limit. Really, the Informant hadn’t had any excuse. There are things that are meant to be said, and things that are meant to be kept secret. He knows that, but he can’t feel guilty about it.

Thinking back, he can’t even regret it, because the memories he’s got out of it are too precious to regret.

The Informant has precisely no interest in films, because Russell’s never been that interested either, but going to the cinema was more about rigid self-control than any actual enjoyment. Although, to be fair, there was that too. There was Russell lit up in treacherously low light, his expression bordering on tenderness when their eyes happened to meet; there was the warmth of his hand, his thigh, as they sat in the too-close seats together; there was the easy conversation or lack thereof, the way Russell has come to smile. His smiles are better than anything the Informant could make with the same face. There was no way the Informant could be smiled at like that – even in Cloakpoint of all places, even surrounded by grime – and not feel his heart pounding in his brittle ribcage. He couldn’t _not_ reach over to take Russell’s hand under the excuse of safety.

The Informant turns his hand over, curls the fingers up a few times. He thinks he can still feel it.

There was the beach, too – he managed that. Even though Russell gave no sign of realising what he was accepting, he’d still accepted, so it counted, right? And Russell seemed interested, he kept the conversation going – they had _fun_. And the Informant guessed the right flavour of ice cream for him (‘guess’, as if he doesn’t know all Russell’s preferences better than his own), and they had a good time. And sure, maybe Russell had thought it was just two friends (are they friends? Does he think they’re friends?) going out for ice cream, but that’s fine. They’re getting along, so it’s fine. The Informant got to watch a sunset while holding Russell’s hand, so it’s fine.

He looks up, gaze resting on his phone. It’s not fine.

It feels like a joke, actually. He wants to laugh about it, but laughing spontaneously is creepy, so he gets up and starts to put away the books waiting on his desk instead. It’s just laughable that he feels this way. It’s even more laughable that he can’t do anything straightforwardly. It’s not just a case of not being able to: it’s the fierce, visceral hatred of being at a loss in a conversation, and the need to always be superior, so he can never just come out and _say_ it. He’s stuck with sidelong glances and daydreaming and wishes that mean nothing, because Russell is never going to notice, he’s never going to–

The Informant freezes at the sound of his phone ringing. Dropping the books, he runs to it, and almost chokes when it’s Russell’s voice on the other end. Hearing that, he can’t do anything but put his hand over his mouth, trying to keep the happiness pressed inside so Russell doesn’t hear. 

Composure is everything, so what does eventually come out of his mouth is not ‘please date me’, but rather, “How can I help you?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

The Informant grapples for self-control. “Of course! Do you need information about anything?”

“Well…yes, but it’s not like that.”

The Informant waits, his heart in his mouth, his fingers twisted into his shirt. He’s not sure he’s breathing properly, and it’s plainly unfair that Russell’s voice alone can have this kind of effect on him. But it’s not just his voice: it’s the fact that he called, that he doesn’t seem to be calling for any normal reason.

Wretched, pathetic hope sets in, and the Informant tries to ignore it.

“So what do you need? You can ask me anything, you know,” he says calmly, sitting back and pinching his thigh to keep himself focussed.

There’s a short pause, and he swears he can hear Russell’s breath, but that’s just static. Surely. It’s got to be. He’s not–

“Informant?”

“Yes?”

“Why have you only been doing things with me, and not the others?”

The Informant drops his hand from his leg, staring into space without really seeing anything. His tone is self-assured when he speaks. “Do you _know_ I haven’t been doing things with the others?”

“Yes.”

Damn.

“Well, you can understand, can’t you?” he asks, reaching for a part of Russell he can bring to light, and hating himself for it. “You’re like this too. Socialising is difficult.” _Especially when you only want one person to look at you, to always be with you, to love you most of all._ “Sometimes you have to break it into small, bite-sized pieces. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

It might be the Informant’s imagination, but in the space of a tiny syllable, Russell manages to sound disappointed. That’s not normal. Again, the Informant’s mind is a jumble of cursing his inability to say things that probably should be said, and the intense pain of having hurt someone.

Though Russell is hardly just ‘someone’.

“Why do you ask?” he says in a useless attempt at salvaging the situation.

A small silence drags into a longer one. Then, “No reason. I just misread something, I think. Sorry for calling you up over it.”

A small silence, a small voice, a small spike of pain in the Informant’s chest that rips through him into burning regret. Oh _fuck_.

He feels like his bones have turned to stone with the effort of trying to say the words that are waiting patiently on his tongue. Of course he can’t say them. That’s not the kind of thing an Informant says. An Informant can leave hints for others to find – pieces of their heart, as if they had one – but they can’t really _say_ things. An Informant from Russell, even less so. But if he doesn’t, then–

“Sorry,” Russell says. “I didn’t mean to bother you so late. I’ll see you around.”

“Russell, wait!” Desperation rages through him, to the point where he thinks he might be able to talk.

Russell does wait – the anticipation hangs heavy between them, and the Informant wishes more than anything that he could see him. A mirror wouldn’t be quite the same thing.

“You…you weren’t misreading things,” he says, and he’s never felt less like himself in his life. “If anything, I was misleading you just now. Sorry. I just don’t find it easy to say things. You can understand that at least, can’t you?” It’s not like before: before, he was acting superior, and now, he’s pleading. “I don’t know why I can’t, but it’s so difficult. I can think of everything, but I can’t _say_ it!”

For a few moments, Russell doesn’t speak, and the Informant can practically hear his own words echoing between them.

“Informant, close your eyes.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tabasa told me about this. Just close your eyes, focus on what you want to say, and say it. I’ll listen. It works better when you’re struggling with face to face things, but it might work here too.”

As if it’s that easy. If anyone else had told him that, the Informant would be sneering, but taking advice from Russell like this is like falling into place, and he finds himself closing his eyes. It’s supposed to be like this.

He breathes in. He can do this. The phone pressed against his ear isn’t real. He’s not talking to anyone. He’s just being an idiot.

“If I’m making an effort to do things with you and not others, it’s on purpose. I want to spend time with you. I want you to spend time with me. I…” –he clenches the phone, screwing his eyes shut tighter– “I want you to spend more time with me than anyone else, and I want you to want that too. I keep overthinking everything when I’m with you, and I think about it all for ages afterwards. I can barely sleep: I’m too busy replaying everything you said, every time I had to look away because I was too close to blushing or fidgeting or stumbling over my words. I feel like such an _idiot_ , but I like it, because you’re the one doing it to me, and I keep thinking that…that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, being like this forever, if it’s with you.”

His eyes hurt from being squeezed shut too long: he opens them, blinking at the brightness of the lights. His cheeks are burning, he can tell that much. The room feels too hot, too enclosed, but also not enclosed enough, because the idea of hiding away in a very small hole is becoming more appealing by the second. Informants aren’t supposed to be like this, but then, Happy Dream isn’t supposed to be like this: they should all have faded away before anything like this could happen.

Maybe he’s just defective. A piece of Russell that grew too much but could never let go of the one person he wanted to be most important to. The embarrassment is a tangible ache within him, and even dragging his legs up onto the sofa and curling into them isn’t helping. But he doesn’t put the phone down, because the idea of missing even a second of whatever Russell’s response might be terrifies him.

Nothing happens for a long time.

It takes the Informant a while to notice because of how his heart is pounding, but there are, in fact, sounds from the other end. It’s mostly breathing, but then Russell makes an odd squeaking sound, and the Informant has to shove his face into a pillow to keep from choking on how cute it is. It’s not fair. He wants to sprint out of the door, run straight to Russell’s house, and see him in person, but he knows full fucking well that if he does that, he’ll never be able to say anything. Not that muffled gasping into a pillow really counts as talking, but at least he’s not trying to keep himself on a pedestal anymore.

“I think…” Russell says, his voice the tiniest bit breathless, but that could just be interference. “I think…I get it.”

The Informant pushes himself up on his elbows, just enough to say, “Do you?”

“I don’t feel the _exact_ same, but…” He breathes out. “I overthink things too, and I’ve been finding it difficult to sleep, because of that. And I’ve really, really been looking forward to what you’ll invite me to next. But it’s…it’s just confusing…”

“It’s confusing me too.” Of course it is: they’re too similar for it not to confuse both of them. They’re two boys who aren’t used to this, thrown into a wave of things they didn’t ask to feel, and it’s making the Informant feel like he’s drowning. It’s not a bad thing.

“Do you…do you mind?” he asks in a soft voice, still somewhat muffled by the pillow.

“…no…”

“I…I don’t mind either. I’m really, really happy.” That’s his limit, he thinks. From the way Russell is keeping resolutely silent, it’s probably his too, or even past it. They weren’t made to talk about things like this.

‘Things like this’. It has a name. It’s a tender, blushing kind of love, and it’s keeping the Informant here, locked in place with happiness and embarrassment and nervousness, all so strong he can barely breathe. It’s like he wants to laugh, but the sheer weight of how much he wants to see Russell – the raw joy of reciprocation, of imagining the future – is clamping his teeth down.

“I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says quietly, and there’s an equally small sound from Russell’s end, and they hang up.

As he buries his face in the pillow, trying not to shriek with some emotion he can’t even name, the Informant reflects that it was probably a good thing that they talked over the phone rather than in person.


End file.
